Like millions of other Americans, my name is on 342,751 mailing and telemarketer lists. As a member of this elite group, I’m entitled to thousands of “special offers” not available to the general public.
Since turning sixty-two, my options have been upgraded to include end-of-life opportunities. First comes low-cost life insurance, followed by a pre-paid funeral plan, and if I act now, they’ll throw in a reverse mortgage—turning the entire deal into a package they call the “Moment of Mortality Trifecta.”
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our sponsor who offers a FREE photo prompt each week just for playing along, is Divinity Smurf Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
copyright – Ronda Del Boccio
The stakeout was Blockson’s idea—as was the set-up.
Lowry hated the long hours of watching and waiting, but catching the mime red-handed was his only ticket to reinstatement on the police force.
Blockson had posed as a homeowner and casually mentioned (three times) his rare 1936 invisible guitar to the cable installer, Theo Updyke, a known blabbermouth and cousin to the suspect.
If all went according to plan, it would only be a matter of time until the mime showed up to nibble the irresistible bait.
“There she is,” whispered Blockson. “Let’s move in. Got the invisible handcuffs ready?”
School starts back in our area on August 13th. Many of the local stores, such as Walmart, provide a display containing supply lists to assist parents with their back-to-school shopping. For some reason, each child is expected to be equipped with six boxes of facial tissues. I suppose these are to dry the teacher’s eyes when your child drives them to tears.
To mess with the store, I like to call a manager over and tell them I’m looking for the supply list for children who are home schooled. It gets ‘em every time.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the schoolmarm of 100-word stories is Margot Liberty Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
copyright – Dale Rogerson
From the moment her first guest checked in, Dale regretted opening an air BNB.
“The bed is so high, I had to use a stepladder,” one visitor whined. “And these chairs—my feet don’t even touch the floor.”
A guest from Scotland criticized her cutlery. “You call this a knife?” he screamed. “A serial killer would wear out his arm trying to crease a marshmallow with this thing.”
Her next client, from Arkansas, wanted to know if she served homemade biscuits and gravy.
Couldn’t they just relax and enjoy the beauty of Montreal?
Who knew Fictioneers would be so picky?
In America’s heartland, it’s popular for people to decorate the back of their vehicle with decals depicting stick-versions of the entire family. Evidently, the most prolific family surname is Ass. The given names are as follows; Jack or Wise (Dad); Smart (Mom); Lazy or Dumb (male teenager); Kiss (his younger sister); Stinky (family pet), and Fat (the live-in relative who won’t lift a finger to help).
I’m not sure I want to be acquainted with the Ass family (although, we may be related via my wife’s Cousin Eddie), so I simply respond with my own bumper sticker which reads; “The weather is here, wish you were beautiful.”
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the cat-herder in charge of ramrodding 100-word stories is Wee Rowdy Yates Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
photo copyright – J. Hardy Carroll
April 15thdawned gray and gloomy in Blandville. The town square was devoid of color except for occasional washed-out splotches of pink and blue. There was not a hint of lavender to be found.
Shelley was performing outside the Post Office, hoping to bring a little cheer to the deadline taxpayers. So far, no one appeared interested in her act.
Was it her prosthetic-leg-tip-jar? Or perhaps her black & white mime costume simply blended into the scenery?
Then she noticed two young women. One was walking an invisible dog on a leash.
Damn, where do I get one of those?
I don’t normally post book reviews. In fact, this is the first since I covered Dick & Jane back in 2012. As you may recall they went on a bicycle ride accompanied by their dog, Spot. For me, it was an exciting and unfortgetable adventure. However, I’m here to tell you that Lucy in the Sky by John Vorhaus is even better.
My first introduction to Mr. Vorhaus was a book entitled The Comic Toolbox. His writing credits include episodes of The Wonder Years, Head of the Class, and Married . . . with Children. I thought to myself, anyone who writes that much humor can’t be all bad–so I decided to order one of his novels. I’m glad I did.
It’s the late 1960s and Gene Steen is a 15yr-old boy growing up in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. His is the prototypical “Father Knows Best” Midwestern family and life is pretty predictable.
That is until his long-lost cousin, Lucy, shows up on their doorstep. She is pert, sassy, sexy, and hip beyond his wildest dreams. Gene is blown away by her “coolness” and idolizes her on many different levels, including her worldly knowledge and personal philosophy. With Lucy’s help, Gene learns to “question reality” and the importance of taking a stand for the things you really believe in.
But Lucy also has a past. And a dark secret that she can’t hide from—even in Milwaukee. Soon she is on the run with Gene by her side and the tempo escalates to a stunning conclusion.
Lucy in the Sky is a fast-paced story with more twists and turns than a drunken snake in a bowl of spaghetti. The book is true to the realities of the era while delivering an uplifting message about personal power and believing in one’s self.
It’s a great coming-of-age story that anyone can appreciate, especially those of us who lived through that era. To learn more about the author, or order one of his books, simply visit johnvorhaus.com
If you’ve ever submitted an article or short story for publication, you’ve probably received a rejection letter or two. Most are quite brief and often an obvious form letter. Here’s how to respond.
Dear ______, Thank you for your letter rejecting my submission. I have received rejections from an unusually large number of popular publications. With such a wide and promising spectrum of rejections, it’s impossible for me to consider them all. After careful deliberation, and because a number of publications have found me more unsuitable, I regret to inform you that I’m unable to accept your rejection. However, circumstances do change and I will keep your letter on file in case my requirements for rejection change.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the editor in charge of word count is Sarah Josepha Hale Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
It had been a long, frustrating day.
Marvin’s talent for creating timeless melodies and unforgettable lyrics had garnered dozens of awards and led to worldwide fame. The walls of his studio were covered with gold records and plaques commemorating his success writing soundtracks for movies and television shows.
Why was he struggling so with this song?
The melody came easy. It was clever, catchy, and simplistic in nature.
Yet for some reason, he just couldn’t find the right word to complete the opening line.
Mary had a little fish
Mary had a little turtle
Mary had little poodle
How many of you baby-talk to your pet? Let’s see a show of hands. No one can see you except for your spouse, who’s probably wondering why you’re holding your hand up in front of a computer screen.
There are several articles on the web that rationalize, or even justify this behavior—though none of them are written by pets. Why do we baby-talk at all? I realize its done with an attitude of affection, but the vocal tone sounds rather condescending when the last thing we want to do is hurt poor little snookum’s feelings.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, famous artist who baby-talks to paintings of empty wine glasses is Brooke Foster Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Gee, it’s great to be out of Gotham City, Batman, but what are we doing in Venice, Italy?
The Riddler has kidnapped the maker of Commissioner Gordon’s favorite canned pasta.
Holy Ravioli, Batman, surely you don’t mean Chef Boy-ar-dee?
Exactly, Robin. The man who revolutionized spaghetti rings, Ettore Boiardi, aka, Hector Boyardee is being held for ransom somewhere in this city.
How will we find him?
The Riddler left a clue; What do you call a run-down neighborhood in Italy?
That’s easy. A Spa-ghetto.
Precisely. To the Bat-Gondola, Robin.
* today’s offering is a take-off from the American TV series “Batman” which aired from 1966-68.
Have you ever predicted something ridiculous and had it come true? A couple of weeks ago, I hinted at possible collusion between our fearless leader and her Canadian cohort (neither of whom are Trump fans).
Apparently, my comment started a war of words between our two countries. A Trump advisor said, “There’s a special place in Hell for Justin Trudeau.” The implication here is that the current U.S. administration has an intimate connection with the Netherworld, and can reserve “special accommodations” for young, dashingly handsome leaders who have nice hair. This calls for a wall—as soon as the Canadians can empty enough Molson bottles to erect one.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our double-naught spy who encrypts secret messages in 100 word posts is Rosa Klebb Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Justin, have you noticed that strange bird outside our window?
Do you mean the one with the audio receptor attached to its head, Sophie?
Oh, I thought that was a plume.
No, the bird’s a drone. And those beady little eyes are cameras.
Who would be spying on us?
I suspect it’s our neighbor, Snidely Badhair.
What do you think he’s after? Classified information? Intelligence gathering?
No, although he could use some intelligence. We have our own bird spy—a loon.
What have you learned?
Nothing. When we ask him to repeat what he heard he just starts laughing.
Is there someone in your house who doesn’t understand how a light switch works? These people have no trouble sliding the lever to the “On” position, but can’t seem to grasp the concept of flipping it to “Off” when they leave the room.
My Dad used to remark that our house was lit up like the Massey Hotel. To keep our electric meter from spinning like a pinwheel on methamphetamines, I threatened to doc our children’ allowances twenty-five cents each time I had to turn off a light behind them. By the end of the week, they always owed me money.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our frugal hostess who docs those exceeding the 100 word limit is Thomasina Edison Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Since retirement, Henry had worked hard to break into to the public speaking circuit. So far, the only gigs he’d landed were hawking free food samples at a neighborhood grocery.
Then fate intervened. One of the customers, impressed by his oratory skills, invited him to speak at a ribbon-cutting ceremony—at the museum, no less.
For three weeks, Henry honed his twenty-minute presentation and imagined the crowd hanging on every word.
“I’m the keynote for the ribbon-cutting,” he told the curator.
“Right this way.”
Inside, a five-year-old girl posed next to a pink, battery-operated toy car, scissors in hand.
Horror, Psychological Thrillers, Poetry, Flash Fiction
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This is the blog of a woman who is seriously on the edge and I mean right ON the edge…no, not there… just a little bit further… further than that…no, further still…just a tiny bit more… just move slightly to the right a little…no, that’s too much…just move a tad to the left…that’s right, just there…now you’ve moved too far to the left… Damn, what part of the ‘on the edge’ do you not understand? Oh, and her matricidal boy genius, come devil spawn.
Or the three people I guilted into reading this blog, whatever.
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AS I TOLD THE GIRL THAT I LOST MY VIRGINITY TO, THANKS FOR LAUGHING AT ME HERE TODAY.
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